


A Study in Humans

by ianlevitt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A really terrible kid fic that you shouldn’t read, Even if you like it I’m probably never going to update, Let’s be real, turn back now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9386594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianlevitt/pseuds/ianlevitt
Summary: Set post-4x03, so not spoiler free. I got this really trashy idea about getting the Holmes brothers to bond over a child, and this happened. Basically, after everything goes down at Sherrinford, Mycroft gets an unexpected visitor who's just going to change everyone's life, one adorable dimpled smile at a time.





	1. The Knock at the Door

Three weeks had gone by since the events at Sherrinford. They had been characterized by the reemergence of Eurus into the Holmes family, and the continued, but honestly anticipated, grilling of one minor government official. An overwhelming sense of guilt threatened to permeate his conversation at times, but never succeeded, as he truly believed that he had done everything in his power to protect his parents and younger siblings. At least, he wanted to believe as much and convinced himself that he did.

Still, there was evidence that Mycroft Holmes was…discomposed. As discomposed as a man of his stature could manage, that is, but that was beside the point. He hid it well—not that it was difficult, considering, well,  _ humans _ ; nevertheless, it was there. It was there, in the bitter taste of his afternoon tea, polluted with regret, and self-reflection, and the basic,  _ stupid _ , “what-ifs” that riddled the entirety of human nature; in his daydreams, the ones he drifted off into when life was dull for a brief moment, the ones of a girl and a boy who’d turned into remarkably terrifying creatures, right before his eyes ; and in the haunted looks he gave himself in the restroom mirror before bed. He pretended not to notice it, not that it worked, as the possession of the “Holmes” name all but guaranteed unmatchable perception.

Sometimes, he forgot all about his inner skirmishes, his apprehension, if only for a stint. And, if he fooled himself, there was no question that he fooled all others. Sad to say, in the eyes of some, yet a rather neutral fact for him—there was no one alive in the world closer to Mycroft Holmes than the man himself.

Throughout the visits to Eurus at Sherrinford, his parents and Sherlock in tow, and the government duties that occupied him regularly, day-to-day, he remained impenetrable. As for his family’s part, and Anthea’s, they had no reason to question after him, and he seldom gave them reason to. Eurus was the center of attention, for the first time in a long while, and Mycroft found himself strangely grateful for the distraction.

Things were getting back to normal, depending on one’s personal definition of “normal.” Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had returned home just two evenings prior, having occupied Mycroft’s guest bedroom for the extent of their stay; and Mycroft was seeing Sherlock much less frequently as of late (in person, of course; he kept tabs on his younger brother at all times, giving a literal meaning to the Orwellian “big brother”). There was the occasional text from either of the aforementioned, sometimes inquiring as to why he never seemed to answer his phone, always asking about Eurus.

**_How is your sister faring?_ **

Mother.

He was exiting his car, trading crisp goodbyes with the driver, when his cellphone screen lit up in his hands. With a sigh, he tucked the phone into his coat pocket—she’d get a reply tomorrow, perhaps in a few hours, when he was up to it. (In fact, he replied as soon as he got himself settled in:  **_She’s perfectly fine, Mother. Sherlock and I visited with her yesterday. Haven’t taken my eyes off of her since._ ** It was embellished, an exaggeration, but humans found solace in that sort of thing, for some reason.)

Mycroft set his phone on the kitchen counter, where it would be far enough away to warrant his neglect for the next few hours or so. He retrieved his laptop from his briefcase and sat down on the loveseat in the living room. He turned on the news, but muted it, as was his habit; there was no real need for a man to watch the news when he practically orchestrated it himself. The chyron popped into his head as he worked:  **MP Yates arrested on drug charges. Heathrow flights delayed due to weather** (it wasn’t weather, but best the people thought as much) **. Vivian Norbury sentenced to life imprisonment on a whole life order.**

Really, he should indulge in some other form of mindless entertainment sometime.

At some point, Mycroft rose from his seat to prepare himself a meal of vegetables and tofu. He checked his phone, found nothing of importance at first glance, and returned to the living room. Just as he lowered himself onto the sofa, a headline about MP Yates glaring at him from the screen, there was a knock at the door. Yes,  _ that _ knock at the door—the one that somehow changes one’s life forever because, well, the person hadn’t used the doorbell, and the doorbell is known to be far less controversial.

Heaving a sigh, bemusement accentuating his movements, he approached the door, his umbrella clutched a bit too tightly in his fist. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he hated not knowing what was going on, especially when it had to do with him. Mycroft looked out through the peephole, yet he saw no one. His eyebrow arched, higher than ever before, he unlocked the door and twisted the doorknob. There, wedged between the door and the doorframe, staring straight ahead of him, he saw no one.

“Hello!”

Mycroft did not jump, necessarily, but he was unpleasantly surprised at the tiny voice that rang in his ears. He mentally rolled his eyes at his own stupidity—he’d been about to close the door  _ without looking down _ , leaving himself perfectly susceptible to an attack from a small person, or, in this case—a child.

A child of no older than seven years, to be exact. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short, either, and the faded scrapes and bruises visible on his arms and face made it clear that he was not only rough at play, but also very well accustomed to bullying, in both roles. His hair was mussed, tousled, unkempt, just recently dried all the way (although, it hadn’t rained anywhere within an 100 mile radius within the last 24 hours; no, the snow alone plagued Britain at this particular hour). He was alone, then, Mycroft reasoned, glancing around, in search of an adult; or, at the very least, he had only a father, for no mother would allow her son to leave the house looking that way. His clothes—a white, long-sleeve undershirt; a red sweater vest; a pair of dark jeans; and fairly worn sneakers—were far too new for an orphaned child (he had to have a caretaker, then), and yet even they were wrinkled and largely unpresentable, as if he’d put the outfit together himself with the intent to…run away. 

_ Clearly _ . Mycroft kicked himself for not noticing the minimalist cartoon bookbag the boy was dragging along behind him. The edge of a pair of trousers was sticking out, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, part of the foot of a stuffed tiger. How the boy expected to live off of lint and, he was assuming, dry cereal and candy bars, he did not wish to know. Such explanations lowered the IQ of the entire street.

The boy was a runaway, then, and an American, judging by his accent—Southern, to be exact, although there was only a hint, seeing as the child was young and still learning. There wasn’t much of a story here, nothing Mycroft Holmes would be interested in, so why, pray tell, had the boy shown up at his doorstep, of all those there were in the whole of England?

“Hello,” Mycroft replied, smiling thinly, very tellingly annoyed, though such a thing was only telling to adults, he presumed, and the few smart ones, at that. “Wrong address, I assure you. Now, shoo, before I phone the police and have them alert your Mummy.” He was going to do it whether the boy stayed or not; he wasn’t a  _ monster _ .

“What would you do that for?” The boy frowned, worry lines creasing his brows, and was Mycroft mistaken, or did he detect a familiar hint of…petulance? How  _ endearing _ .

“You are a runaway, are you not? You’re an American, which means that you are very, very far from home.”

“I’m not a runaway, Mr. Holmes.” The boy was pouting now, just barely noticeable, but Mycroft was more engrossed by the fact that the child knew who he was—or thought he did. “My Mommy sent me to run  _ to _ you. She’s in trouble, lots of trouble, and she says she trusts you.”

Mycroft all but glared, less out of anger and more out of frustration that he hadn’t the slightest clue as to what was going on. Even under that menacing gaze, however, the boy did not waver. “Does she, now?”

The boy nodded, profusely. “That’s what she said at the airport.”

Running a hand over his face, disturbed, to sum it up in a word, the British Government grit out, “And who, exactly, is your mother, child?” His hand slid down to his cheek, where he let it rest. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft made it a point to interrupt him, if only to give himself the illusion of having the upperhand—it would be crushing, really, to be duped in a game of logic by a schoolboy. “Never mind that. How do you know who I am, hm? What am I, of all people, meant to do for  _ you _ ?”

The boy rocked back and forth on his feet. And then, he shrugged.

“I don’t know. Mommy just said you’re my father.”


	2. The Coloring Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft knows he has a son, but he has no idea why he's in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so glad that I got a such a positive response on chapter 1! I’m just winging this thing, but I have an idea of where we’re going, and yes, there is a plot, so I’m not just giving you one shots here. I hope you guys realize how many photos of the Holmes boy I have saved, ready to go on Tumblr.

He’d been quite certain that he was in love with her—the child’s mother.

There was no way to tell, of course; he didn’t quite know what love felt like for one’s significant other. Nevertheless, he reasoned that his prospects for his future with her were evidence that he was, indeed, in love with her. There was no constant desire to be in her presence; or uncharacteristic public displays of affection; nor an overbearing need to know of her well being and location at all times. But when she first brought up the notion of having a child with him, Mycroft did not flinch. In fact, it was only a matter of days before he informed her that, yes, he would be amiable to producing an heir with her.

She was no average woman, _clearly_. Though hers was minimal compared to his own, she possessed a great intellect, unlike any he’d seen from any other “goldfish.” She was an American, a spy (she wouldn’t tell him as much, but he’d deduced) stationed in Britain on standby, during what threatened to be a contentious time between the two nations. He’d known, very well, that the “contention” would amount to nothing. He’d also understood that he would be hardpressed to find another woman as suited to bear his child—Irene Adler could never be part of the equation, for obvious reasons. There was no true yearning on Mycroft’s part to bring a baby into the world; he did not care about whether or not there would be anyone clever left behind once the Holmes’ were gone. But his mother constantly pestered him for a grandchild, and women would throw themselves at his feet every once in a blue moon, both of which he hoped would stop once he finally had a child (neither did).

Mummy Holmes had not been too impressed with the fact that Mycroft’s child would be born out of wedlock, but he staunchly held that he would not marry and seldom wavered. The entire Holmes family, excluding Eurus, had known about the pregnancy and participated in their own ways. Mother and Father had decorated a room in their home for their grandchild and kept in touch with the unborn child’s mother on a more consistent basis than Mycroft himself did, which he noticed when they showed up to a small baby shower held at his flat, unbeknownst to him; and Sherlock had largely avoided speaking on the matter, unless he could use it to ridicule his brother (“Says the man who is so pitiful with people that he had to outsource a pregnancy,” for instance). Anthea was made aware halfway through the pregnancy, as she had to accompany the spy on the rare occasion that Mycroft expressly requested her presence. She had suggested a number of baby names to both of the expecting parents; her boss tuned her out every time.

When the child was born, Mycroft and his parents were at the hospital, the former of whom had had to procure a jet from Manchester to arrive in a timely manner. The sex of the child had been confirmed at the baby shower, so when Miles William Jayden Holmes was brought into the world, no one was particularly surprised. A warmth threatened to overcome Mycroft in that moment, one that he just barely tapered down. In the coming weeks, the child’s mother was around less and less, leaving him in the care of his father, his paternal grandparents, his paternal uncle, and Anthea. Eventually, she left the country altogether, and only once Mycroft had gotten into the routine of staying up all night and changing nappies and humming bedtime lullabies (as he had done with Sherlock) did she return to retrieve the child.

  
She’d made a weak case as to why the child should return to the States with her, and Mycroft had not challenged her on it. This, of course, led to the deepening of the rift between Mycroft and his parents, and, to an extent, his brother—Sherlock had taken a liking to Miles, and he’d often offered to watch after him. In time, mentions of the child by the Holmes family and Anthea were few and far between, until they were nonexistent. At the center of the Holmes’ boys world became John Watson, Jim Moriarty, _Eurus_. There was no time to think of Miles, though Mycroft did so fleetingly every day.

There was never any update on Miles from his mother, not that Mycroft had expected anything of the sort, not in his logical, thinking mind. He’d come to accept quite quickly that he would never see Miles Holmes again, at least not in person, but he was still contented with the fact that there was a Miles Holmes out there, somewhere.

Yes, there _was_ a Miles Holmes out there, somewhere.

And that somewhere was his father’s home.

Mycroft had recognized him almost instantly; yet, he knew that, whatever trick his mother was playing at, it would end disastrously for the both of them. After all, Miles would be old enough to remember now, if he was taken from his father again. And Mycroft was not particularly keen on feeling whatever he had felt when they’d been torn apart the first time around again.

It was more difficult than he’d imagined, turning his own son away when he was so obviously alone and lost and _clever_ , just like his father.

He’d invited Miles in, with every intention of their meeting lasting for mere minutes. Yet, here they were: Mycroft, seated on the same loveseat from before, his work now forgotten; and Miles, dwarfed by the sofa across from his father, trying not to spill the mug of hot chocolate in his hands.

Mycroft sighed, heavily, and held his face in his hand. When he spoke, he sounded quite tired. “Miles, let’s go over this one more time, shall we?”

The boy groaned, in apparent frustration. “ _For what_? I keep telling you the same story, and you never believe me.” Miles lolled his head to the side, dramatically. “What’s the point?” Mycroft didn't’ recall his mother having such an emotional palette—where had he learned that, then?

“The point is that I have an inkling you are, mistakenly or otherwise, leaving important details out of your narrative that could help me determine your mother’s current location.”

Miles pouted, and Mycroft frowned. “We came here together. She put me in a car, and she got on another plane without me. And now I’m here.”

That helped with absolutely _nothing_. The child was clearly irritated with the line of questioning, and he’d be of no more assistance, at least not tonight. “Your mother knows where I live, then?”

“Nope.”

“Then how did you wind up at my house?”

“ _Ugh_.” He took a messy swig of his beverage. “Mommy put me in the car, and she told me to find you myself. It wasn’t hard—you’re not a mystery or ‘nigma, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft ignored the surge of…pride?…in his chest and quirked a brow. “Is that so? I find it very difficult to believe that a five-year old could figure that out all on his own.”

At that, Miles scoffed. He hopped off of the sofa and set his mug on the table in between them, sending chocolate milk all over the place in the process. Miles dug into his backpack, which was lying on the floor in front of the couch, and walked over to his father to hand him a binder.

“I’ve been looking into your files,” the boy said.

Mycroft examined the contents of the binder, as the boy returned to his seat. He shut it, impatiently. “This is a _coloring book_ , Miles.”

The boy shrugged. “It helps me think.”

“Very well, then.” Mycroft said, the corners of his lips upturned into a smile that was more agitated than anything else. “That’s enough for you tonight.”

* * *

 

The contents of Miles’ backpack were as follows: one stuffed tiger, one pair of black trousers, one pair of blue basketball shorts, two long-sleeve shirts, a Yankees jersey,  a binder, a 24-pack of crayons, and an unopened (and warmed) juice pouch.

Miles chose to wear the shorts and jersey as his pajamas for the night. He would be staying in the guest bedroom, which was virtually bare and, thus, had no real need to be childproofed. His irrational fear of sleeping alone, as he had done for the past three years of his life, was minimized when Mycroft informed him that he had no bedtime and could explore the house, including the kitchen, all throughout the night, as long as he did so quietly.

Once Miles was dressed for the evening and seated on top of his bedcovers, coloring, Mycroft wished him a good night and made to leave the room.

But Miles called after him.

“Daddy! Is this my room?

Mycroft shut his eyes and breathed in, deeply. He’d never imagined that he would hear that word directed at him; Miles couldn’t have, either, for the word sounded foreign on his tongue, but he’d clearly been waiting for what felt like an eternity in his young life to finally say it. While endearing, somehow, it only made Mycroft’s job harder. He composed himself and turned around to face his son.

“This is the guest room,” he said, slowly.

“Yes, but it’s _my_ room now. Right?”

Mycroft took a tentative step toward the child. “Miles, you have to go home. As soon as possible. You understand that, yes?”

Miles rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a home. Mommy’s gone off somewhere.”

“Well, wherever she is, I will not rest until I find her.”

Miles looked downtrodden, then, but he said no more. He muttered a half hearted “Good night” of his own and resumed his coloring.

Just down the hall, his father resigned himself to a restless sleep.


End file.
